


In Defiance of Destiny

by indifferentyoongi



Category: Actor RPF, Thai Actor RPF, offgun
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Bickering and Blow Jobs, Brief Mention of Unwanted Touching, Eventual Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23093920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indifferentyoongi/pseuds/indifferentyoongi
Summary: Tumcial:What brand of shirt are you wearing in your pfp?Gun’s eyes darted around the inside of the comforter, looking for sense that wasn’t there. He almost went to his chat with Kwang to ask what the hell this guy could be implying with a question as innocuous as that, especially when the shirt he was wearing in the picture was just one of his dad’s old Hawaiian ones he wore to bed sometimes.ATPtoPlease:You’re kidding, right?A typing bubble appeared immediately, and Gun wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.Tumcial:No lol. I think it’d look good on me, too. Where’d you get it?Okay, now Gun knew. Offense was what he felt. He didn’t want anyone to come on to him, but now that this douchebag wanted nothing more than his shopping history, Gun had the distinct want to do something risky. Like send him a picture of his asshole just to prove a point.--Or, Gun was working 3 jobs to keep his head above water, and just when he thought he was done with the sugaring app where he sent nudes to wealthy men for money, Off Jumpol appeared in his inbox.
Relationships: Off Jumpol Adulkittiporn/Gun Atthaphan Phunsawat
Comments: 23
Kudos: 372





	In Defiance of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome you to a story of self-indulgence. Everything that's fascinated me about offgun over the past six months is contained within, and I hope you enjoy all that I do about them. 
> 
> Quick disclaimer is in order:  
> Use of the term "sugar daddy" in the tags is a bit (a lot a bit) loose. Even before Off enters the picture, Gun is basically only sending nudes for money, not entering full romantic and/or sexual relationships, so if that's a component of this trope you dislike, I just wanted to let you know it's not really represented here. 
> 
> Quick thanks are also in order:  
> A & Y for letting me vent while writing this despite neither of you having fallen down the bl rabbit hole  
> BOJS gc for inspiring 99% of this with every conversation we've ever had 
> 
> Happy reading~~~

This was far easier behind the security of a screen. 

It was just pictures, flirtations composed like creative writing prompts. Gun was never that good in school, but he thought if the assignments had required him to phrase just how much he wanted to suck someone’s dick in such a specific way that the recipient deposited 10,000 Baht into his account without question, he could have graduated with an MFA in six months flat. 

Six months was all it’d taken, in fact, for him to get alarmingly comfortable with an arrangement that began as nothing more than a joke. A drunken dream.

“I heard this girl from my last job was doing it,” Kwang had told him. Her fourth drink of the night sloshed dangerously as she feigned nonchalance. _This is totally normal_ , she was trying to convey. Gun braced himself for whatever was about to come out of her mouth. Inevitably, it would _not_ be normal. 

“It’s just an app where you can trick perverted ugly men into paying your rent.”

Before Gun could even think about scoffing, Jennie was excitedly adding, “He already does that on a daily basis when he gives that landlord of his those puppy eyes and plump mouth.’ She tried her worst to mimic his pout with exaggerated fluttering of lashes and a lick of chapped lips. 

“I have _never_ done that,” Gun whined. He wiped his hand across her face to force the facade to melt away. “He only takes pity on me because he went to college with my dad. If anyone else knew I applied for that apartment with only a part-time job, I would have been laughed out of the leasing office.” 

Nook, the most sober among them, placed a comforting hand over his. “Have you thought about explaining to your landlord that waiting for auditions takes time, and you could back-pay as soon as you’re able to?”

With a small shake of his head, Gun focused on the familiar scratches of the table they always inhabited in the middle of their favorite bar. Maybe if he’d saved every dollar he’d ever slid across this sticky surface, he wouldn’t have ended up in this position. 

“I don’t want him to tell my dad that I’m pursuing acting at all,” he explained, eventually. “Dad thinks I’m still in college, you guys know that. He asked Golf to help me out finding a place close to campus.” 

They all nodded sagely. Discussion of Gun’s rent problem was in regular rotation at their weekly catch-ups. Around work, dating, dealing with family, trying to revert their skin back ten years, and complaining about the new bartender’s refusal to acknowledge their unspoken agreement to pour a little extra for the regulars, rent always came up. This wasn’t the first time a brainstorm belted over the sound of the jukebox on a Friday night.

Much better suggestions had come from his well-meaning best friends, but somehow it was Kwang’s offhand remark that Gun couldn’t stop thinking about for the entirety of the following week. When he should have been browsing the boutique where he was paid in the afternoons to help clients shop, _it’s just an app_ played in his mind on repeat. 

He’d taken flattering pictures before. Granted, he was always too terrified to send them to anyone, but there was a password-protected folder on his laptop with his favorites. He wasn’t afraid to be suggestive. He didn’t mind the thought of feeling wanted if he set the terms. If he was in control. 

And it had worked, easily enough, for six entire months after the night he secretly made an account with a blanket pulled up to his face at three in the morning. Only now, standing in the middle of a bar that was not _his favorite_ bar, did Gun realize he’d made a big fucking mistake. 

It took less than a second of soft hands clutching at cold-sweat-skin for him to bolt. Not the firm “what the FUCK” heard over the music nor the knowledge that he was leaving behind three months of financial security were enough to convince him to turn back. He ran all the way home, _had_ to run all the way home since he’d been stupid enough to let the creep drive him to their “date”, which Gun knew only now was just a thinly veiled excuse to hook up with him in public even though he’d never agreed to anything even close to that. 

_I want to see your face in motion, baby_ , the message had read. 

“You’re too naive,” Nook had said. 

Fingers in his hair and twinkling music in the air soothed over the terror Gun had felt just an hour before. She’d shown up at his apartment quicker than he knew was safe after he’d called her, out of breath and crying angry tears. 

“I know, I know.”

“Promise me you’ll be more careful?” 

“You don’t even have to worry about that.” He sat up from where his head rested in her lap. “I’m done with that shit. I’ll find another way. There’s got to be another way.”

She eased him back down, remained her petting, and Gun, thankfully, slipped into sleep. 

*

There was enough money Nook forced him to stow in a savings account for Gun to not spare a second lamenting the loss of his side job. He didn’t end up having a spare second anyway when the local commercial he’d auditioned for in the previous week ended up being in the good graces of some higher power who felt sorry for him. 

“We’re going to reset, run through it again from the top, and then you’ll be good to head home for the night,” the commercial’s director told Gun and his co-star at the end of a long shooting day. They’d been on set since six that morning, and midnight was nearing quickly. Gun was happy to be busy—to be working, to be making money, to be making rent—but he’d spent all of his energy in front of these cameras today; he wanted nothing more than to unwind at the bar, with the girls, with _two drinks_ he could now afford. It was yet another Friday, after all.

Somehow, all of that must have been written all over his face.

“I promise I won’t laugh this time,” said the guy who was also cast to sell the most exciting bowling alley employee experience the world had ever seen. 

When Gun arrived this morning, he was surprised to find out that the only other actor hired for this job wasn’t someone he’d ever seen at the many auditions he’d circuited through in this city. The guy introduced himself as ‘Oab’ with a smile so pretty Gun questioned whether he’d been cast in a toothpaste commercial instead. Gun smiled back without even meaning to. 

Oab was nothing but good-natured all day long as he made easy jokes in between takes, like they’d met before or like they were bonded together by this experience alone—one low budget commercial at the end of a rainy week; two broke twenty-somethings at the end of their patience. Somewhere around the twelve hour mark every line of the script became irrevocably funny, and Oab was simply unable to say “fun for me, fun for you, it’s fun to be Blue Shoe Crew!” without an incredulous giggle. 

“If you do, you owe me a drink when we leave.” _Jennie would love you_ , he thought. 

“Are you telling me you’re inviting me on a date to the only bowling alley in Bangkok to think painting their pins blue means they are _not_ like all the other girls? I’ll buy you an overpriced beer and a frozen, never fresh cheeseburger to go along with it.”

Under different circumstances, Gun might have blushed at the mention of a date, no matter how clearly it might have been said in jest, but something about Oab didn’t make him overthink things. They’d probably have good chemistry together, Gun considered, if they were cast in something with substance. He’d be able to let himself go, if he was opposite Oab. Reality, though, was that he just wanted to be sent home. 

“Imagine if they’d paid us solely in free bowling games. Would you still have signed the contract?” Gun asked as they sat in the lobby waiting. 

“I hate to admit that I would have seriously considered it, all of my dates from now until forever would’ve been taken care of.”

“Bowling, notoriously sexy.”

Oab got up and walked a few paces in front of where Gun slouched in a plastic chair and pretended to throw an imagined ball down an imaginary lane, both of which actually existed on the other side of the building if either of them were committed enough to this bickering to move. 

While bent over, arm stretched out in front of his body, Oab looked back at Gun and winked. “You stare at each other’s asses every 30 seconds, what more could you want?” 

For some reason, the slow and obvious and not even that funny bit was unexpected, and so Gun was now the one laughing. He was bent over several seats, holding his stomach, when a production assistant fetched them to get back into position. 

Nothing could keep Gun from at least pretending to be professional, so he tried his best to compose himself as they dutifully walked over to the shoe counter. Oab knocking his shoulder into Gun’s made him smile nonetheless, and he felt relief radiate from the spot where they’d touched. It felt like he might just have some luck on his side. It felt like Oab canceled out the past week, but that Gun wasn’t even starting back at zero. Positive. His bank account, his mood, his night: all in the positive. 

So when Oab asked if they could exchange numbers when the shooting finally finished, Gun didn’t hesitate to say yes. 

His fingers, however, did hesitate, when he picked up his phone for the first time in hours to see a notification he was in no way expecting to receive. 

**Sugar So Sweet** : Tumcial has sent you a message

“Everything okay?” Oab asked when Gun stood staring down at his screen.

“Uh,” Gun replied without looking up. “Yeah, I just thought I deleted the account.” And then more quietly: “Didn’t I delete it?”

“What an absolutely ominous thing to say,” Oab joked, but when Gun did finally swipe past the notification and swap his phone with his new friend’s, he saw what he thought might be sincere concern on Oab’s face. . 

“Bowling is sexy and notifications are ominous,” Gun tried to lighten the mood. “Things we’ve learned today.”

“Also that it’s fun to be Blue Shoe Crew.”

“If you ever text me, please say anything other than that.”

No sooner had Gun gotten into his car did he receive a notification that canceled out the last:

**Oab:** **  
** It’s  
Fun  
to  
Be  
Blue  
Shoe  
Crew  
:-) 

*

For the first Friday in weeks, Gun found himself driving home rather than to the bar (or to karaoke, or to the movies, or to a friend’s house). He was exhausted, and the girls had already left for their own homes, and surprisingly, working with Oab felt just the same as hanging out with his usual crowd. That typical pull in his chest when he was by himself for too long was dormant. 

Gun climbed into bed un-lonely, decently paid, and washed free from the smell of feet and wax. 

That simple combination was calming enough that Gun didn’t have time to plug his phone in, didn’t even get the chance to text something witty back to Oab, before his eyes slipped shut. What felt like only a few seconds later, it was the feeling of his thumb falling from where it hovered over his screen that jerked Gun back awake. 

He opened his eyes to the unfortunate contrast of bright phone against dark night. Blinking rapidly and groaning to no one who could hear, Gun moved to grab the charger hanging next to his nightstand when his hand vibrated.

**Sugar So Sweet** : Did you see? Tumcial sent you a message. Don’t leave them hanging!

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Gun muttered before turning his phone over and turning himself toward the wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest, his hands up under his head, waited for the sleep he knew was coming.

It was 2:30am. Gun didn’t have a shift at the boutique tomorrow. He could sleep in all day if he wanted to. He’d have greasy food for breakfast—a work hangover just as real as one from alcohol. He’d call his dad as he usually did whenever he booked a gig, pride filtered through lies about acing college exams he wasn’t taking. He could go to Jennie’s house, maybe, tell her about Oab’s teeth, and,

_Fuck it_

He flipped back over, snatched his phone, and threw the comforter his mom bought him on his tenth birthday over his head. In the safety of such a makeshift cocoon, he clicked on the haunting notification.

Just seeing the app’s color scheme made Gun’s stomach turn. He really needed to delete this whole fucking thing. Then he’d be able to sleep. Then he wouldn’t be considering swearing at this random person who had no idea they were playing surrogate to a creep who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Gun would probably just be over it by now, if he really had deleted his account like he’d imagined. What a cruel daydream.

What a nightmare to be clicking on Tumcial’s message at all.

A fast “fuck you” was halfway typed out before Gun’s comprehension of the message before him froze his entire body in place.

**Tumcial:** _What brand of shirt are you wearing in your pfp?_

Gun’s eyes darted around the inside of the comforter, looking for sense that wasn’t there. He almost went to his chat with Kwang to ask what the hell this guy could be implying with a question as innocuous as that, especially when the shirt he was wearing in the picture was just one of his dad’s old Hawaiian ones he wore to bed sometimes, but he remembered that no one knew about this message but him. His friends most likely assumed he’d deleted the account, too, and at this point he was too embarrassed to admit to his original oversight even more than his current predicament—yet another weirdo in his DMs.

Technically, he had nothing to lose by responding; no one to disappoint.

_Fuck it_

**_ATPtoPlease:_ ** _You’re kidding, right?_

A typing bubble appeared immediately, and Gun wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. 

**Tumcial:** _No lol. I think it’d look good on me, too. Where’d you get it?_

Okay, now Gun knew. Offense was what he felt. He didn’t _want_ anyone to come on to him, but now that this douchebag wanted nothing more than his shopping history, Gun had the distinct want to do something risky. Like send him a picture of his asshole just to prove a point. 

_It looks better off_ was the reply he decided on instead. Feeling proud of himself, Gun’s hands tightened around his phone as Tumcial started typing again.

**Tumcial:** _It’ll look better on Off :p_

Gun rubbed at his temples—exhausted more from this short conversation than from all of the work he’d ever been tasked with in his entire life.

Somehow sensing his confusion, Tumcial started typing again.

**Tumcial:** _(my name is Off, by the way) (what’s yours?) (by that I mean what’s the name of the store where you bought that impeccable shirt) (I’ll buy you anything you want from there, no questions asked)_

This guy seemed so serious in his pursuit of terrible dad fashion that Gun kind of believed he wasn’t up to anything unsavory. The icon next to his username was just a cartoon hand holding up a peace sign and not a close-up shot of his balls, which was already more than Gun could say for half of the people he’d encountered on this ridiculous platform. 

**_ATPtoPlease:_ ** _In exchange for what?_

**Tumcial:** _The details of where the shirt’s from, duh. Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying? It’s late, should we talk tomorrow? Will you listen better then?_

**_ATPtoPlease:_ ** _What if I asked for one of everything they sell?_

**Tumcial:** _I’d ask whether you’ll actually wear all of that or if you’re just being wasteful for the sake of it :_ /

Gun chewed at the skin around his thumb nail. 

**_ATPtoPlease:_ ** _What if I asked for 6 months rent instead?_

When no typing bubble appeared, Gun assumed he’d fucked up. 

There was something to lose, apparently: hope he allowed to grow under the warmth of the comforter; hope in the hands of a silly stranger. 

In an act that now seemed like a summoning ritual, placing his phone on the charger caused it to vibrate. 

**Tumcial:** _How about one month’s rent for one single shirt? I’m not trying to file for bankruptcy tonight_

Without thinking that it was nearing three in the morning, Gun dialed his dad’s number, but he of course had to leave a voicemail. Now his hope hung on a decade-old night shirt that might have come from a thrift shop. 

Better a shirt than a stranger; better a shirt than sex. 

*

There was good news and bad news once Gun’s dad called him back in the morning, first worried that something was wrong, second convinced his son was curating a line at the boutique solely centered on his good father’s fashion sense. 

The relief: the brand the shirt came from, despite its logo having worn off from the inside tag, did still exist.

The rub: no longer was this piece or any adjacent, equally ugly Hawaiian shirt sold online or in-store.

Luckily, no one was inside of the store when Gun slammed down the front-desk phone he definitely shouldn’t have been using to find something for his…did it even count as a sugar relationship if only clothes were exchanged for money? Surely clothes had to come off for Gun to classify this Off guy as his _sugar daddy_. 

Even then, that definition was loose. This app was more like a glorified Snapchat Premium account; there was no expectation for dates or relationships unless arranged personally. And, well, Gun knew how _that_ could go. 

At most Off was just a prospective benefactor. Yeah. That sounded better anyway, not that it would even matter if he couldn’t find the stupid—

“You’re going to have to stop biting at your thumb if you ever hope to land a hand cream commercial.”

Mook--technically Gun’s boss, as she was this boutique’s owner, but more like his little sister--not-so-gently pried his hand away from his mouth. 

If the bleeding around his nail wasn’t enough, Mook certainly saw the desperation in his eyes, in such stark contrast to the bright light bouncing around the boutique’s interior, its pretty jewelry and gold-accented belts glittering in the early afternoon sun.

“Talk me through it,” she said, like she frequently did. “What’s eating Gun Atthaphan?” 

In a moment of stress, he almost told her everything. But that would have required admitting to the last six months when Mook knew nothing of what his other friends knew, and he didn’t think he could do that, so he compromised. 

“Costume department for this production company I got a job with offered me a good chunk of money to find this one specific shirt they needed for a shoot, and I can’t find it anywhere. I’m going to lose the sale and maybe even a relationship that could lead to more gigs, and I’m annoyed with myself for not being able to do this simple task that you literally trained me to do.”

Her eyes softened, but they didn’t lose their own glitter. 

“Well, you know our motto: if we don’t have what they _want_ , we convince them something we do sell is what they _need_.”

She winked, smiled in that way she could: sweet, but knowing, and Gun let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for the past twelve hours straight. 

“So, you’re saying I could buy something else and sell him on that even though it wasn’t at all what he asked for? And that would work?”

Seeing Mook nod so confidently, Gun questioned why he couldn’t have thought of that himself. He was so afraid of letting such a sure thing fall through his fingers that he couldn’t think straight. How was it that nudes were so much simpler than night shirts. 

“Okay. I’m going to ask you a question I know is going to offend your sensibilities.” 

“My pearls are ready to be clutched, P’. Hit me.”

“What’s the highest quality, ugly Hawaiian shirt money can buy?”

Mook scrunched her nose. “How old is the character you’re buying this for?”

“He definitely has an inner 65 year old, that’s for sure,” Gun joked, but while Mook logged on to the boutique’s catalogue of brands they pulled inventory from, Gun pulled out his phone. 

Now he was curious.

**ATPtoPlease:** _I would work faster if I knew how old you were_

**Tumcial:** _That makes absolutely no sense. You could have at least come up with a good excuse to want to get to know me_

**ATPtoPlease:** _I don’t want to know anything about you except why you like ugly shirts and how old you are_.

**Tumcial:** _It wasn’t ugly when it was on you. I’ll send you a pic once I buy it, you can decide for yourself._

**ATPtoPlease:** _I’m going to hold you to that. I want to see the fruits of my hard labor._

**Tumcial:** _Don’t understand how sending me a link is labor when I’m the one forking out 22,000 Baht, but okay, sure. We have a deal._

**ATPtoPlease:** _Only once you tell me how old you are_

**Tumcial:** _You first._

**ATPtoPlease:** _-.- You’re ridiculous._

**Tumcial:** _You were ridiculous first._

**ATPtoPlease:** _Has anyone else you’ve ever messaged on this app told you you’re kind of an asshole?_

**Tumcial:** _It's my charm. Now spill._

**ATPtoPlease:** _How am I the one being interrogated? -.- I'm '93. Now you go, jerk_

**Tumcial:** _Oh. I’m not that much older. Why do you look like your skin hasn’t aged since you were 5? This is fundamentally unfair. Now I think you should be the one paying me money._

**ATPtoPlease:** _In exchange for what?_

Peaking over at Mook’s progress seemed like a better idea than watching Off’s typing bubble disappear and reappear rapidly. She was browsing a brand he knew would cost Off half the payment for his service. Considering Off was on this app, surely he’d be able to afford something from a luxury brand, right? Right? The mere possibility that the price could scare him away was enough for Gun to lean over and ask Mook to adjust the price point. 

When he glanced back at his phone, Off still hadn’t answered. Gun decided to prod, now amused rather than shy. Maybe this guy’s mood was just a front: he was all bark and no bite.

Gun liked to bite. 

**ATPtoPlease:** _What could you offer me, hm, P’? Anything? I want to feel convinced to give you everything I own._

**Tumcial:** _There’s a reason I’m not on here as a baby, I have nothing to offer that isn’t stability for someone who needs it. I’m kind of an abrasive person as you just pointed out lol. I’m not worth much of anything, but I have plenty to give. Oh, and I’m ’91, by the way. To answer your original question._

Gun didn’t know what to say to such vulnerability he hadn’t meant to invite, so he acted instead. 

With a few hours dedicated to the catalogue instead of the customers Mook kindly handled for him, Gun was leaving work just before dinner time and heading to a store farther into the city that could confirm over the phone that they sold a blue, purple, and green Hawaiian-style shirt, where the flowers were replaced with little emoticons and scribbled faces. 

It was a compromise: reasonably priced, reasonably fashionable, more versatile in riding that line between cute and hideous, Gun’s aesthetic mixed with what he assumed Off liked. 

The only task left was selling him on it and not fucking it up, and Gun, for once in his life, had a good idea.

*

If Off was so intrigued by Gun’s profile picture, a bit of exposed shoulder, a healthy amount of lip gloss, two undone buttons, and a pair of bedroom eyes perfected over weeks of messaging wealthy men should have been just enough, Gun reasoned, to convince Off that this shirt was worth his livelihood. 

He took shots from twenty different angles and sent his three favorites over to Jennie with nothing other than the hope that she’d assume he was posting on Instagram as per usual. 

As only a best friend could, she chose the one he liked best: head just barely tilted to the side, lips just barely parted, eyebrows just barely raised. 

_Hot!!!! Mysterious little devil, whose attention are you trying to steal?_ she’d texted back. Gun wanted to tell her that it wasn’t about him but the stupid _shirt_. He was just a bonus. But he couldn’t, so he took the fact that she didn’t comment on his clothes at all as a compliment that his styling skills were still in tact. 

He navigated to Sugar So Sweet, hidden in a folder inconspicuously titled “work,” but anxious fingers hesitated once Off’s chat was open. 

Coming up with a caption wasn’t as easy as taking the photo itself. 

Saying nothing at all was an option—a dramatic one Gun would usually go for—but Off could easily miss the point. He could think the bonus was the meal. 

Well, maybe. Gun was fairly certain this guy was very straight and very lost being on this _particular_ sugaring app. Bless his heart.

**ATPtoPlease:** _I found something better, P’. I want to see how this looks on you instead~~_

It was late, but he was confident Off was online since he’d responded every other time Gun had ever messaged him. Waiting for the typing bubbles to pop with words, Gun sat with bare legs crossed in the exact middle of his bed, only boxers covering the tops of his thighs. He imagined what kind of job Off must have in order to be so available during regular business hours and so late into the night and to be so generous with such little regard. 

In the middle of deciding if picturing Off as a CEO was too romance-novel cliché, his phone vibrated. 

**Sugar So Sweet:** Tumcial sent you a message!

Gun's confidence melted immediately; only rolling himself in his comforter allowed him to click on the notification. 

**Tumcial:** _You could have just told me you couldn’t find the other one. You didn’t have to go out of your way to find something else—we could have worked something else out. You don't think very rationally, do you? Are you broke because you’re impulsive or what?_

That. Was not the response he was expecting, not even kind of. Not in any of the scenarios Gun had bounced off the stuffed animals stacked in the corner of his bedroom. He didn’t need his favorite, a giraffe taller than he was, to convince him to start typing quickly now. 

**ATPtoPlease:** _Spending this entire day that I was supposed to be working trying to find you a nice replacement for a shirt you can’t buy anymore doesn’t sound irrational or impulsive to me, actually. I was solving a problem. And being an asshole isn’t charming, by the way._

**Tumcial:** _Look, I'm not trying to be a dick right now I just don’t want you to waste energy on me and I don’t know why you couldn’t have just texted me saying that things fell through. I would have understood._

**ATPtoPlease:** _Was my energy wasted? Do you think the shirt looks nice?_

**Tumcial:** _You're the one who looks nice. I don’t know if it would work on me. But we can see._

Gun had whiplash.

**ATPtoPlease:** _Meaning…_

**Tumcial:** _Don't act coy. You can send the shirt, our deal is still on…just…be more responsible._

**ATPtoPlease:** _:D :D :D :D_

**ATPtoPlease:** _You still owe me a pic. I want to see how good you look_

**Tumcial:** _Needy, needy…_

**ATPtoPlease:** _:D_

*

Ideally, Gun would not have been drunk in Oab’s kitchen when Off made good on the promise to send him a picture in the shirt. 

He’d endured a long week of prickly boutique customers; auditions for roles he was, frankly, better than; and dodging more than one message from idiots on Sugar So Sweet, so when Oab called and asked if he was up for a house party, Gun was more than happy to say yes. 

But ideally, Oab would not have had his chin on Gun’s shoulder, eyes peeking at his phone, when Gun unthinkingly clicked on the notification. 

**Tumcial:** _If I make this my new profile picture you have to change yours or else it’ll look like we’re matching and I don’t know who would believe it’s just a coincidence_

Even if their clothes were of a similar ilk, Off’s expression was nothing like the one Gun had in his own photo. His lips were pursed in what looked more like a duck bill than a kiss; one eyebrow was raised as high as it could possibly go. Off looked like he was simultaneously trying way too hard and not trying nearly hard enough. 

The shirt, as expected, looked lovely, especially with four entire buttons left undone and shoulders broad enough to pull the fabric taut across an untoned chest. 

Off was cute, kind of, in a way that the most average of straight men still managed to be, and the disgustingly high percentage of liquor in whatever godforsaken mixed drink Oab had sitting out by the bucket-full must have persuaded him to say that out loud. 

“He looks like my uncle,” Oab responded. “I’m cuter.”

He turned in toward Gun’s face and smiled. 

“There is no contest,” Gun confirmed.

“I don’t know anything about this guy, but I don’t trust his face.”

“Let’s see if the feeling is mutual,” was all the preamble Gun gave before pointing his phone at them and snapping a picture. Oab looked carefree and happy like he always seemed to, and Gun looked visibly, unmistakably drunk. He quickly cropped out the crowd of people dancing in the living room over Oab’s shoulder and navigated back to Sugar So Sweet.

**ATPtoPlease:** _do u trust this guy’s face y or n_

**Tumcial:** _Did you just reply to seeing what I look like for the first time, with me wearing the shirt you hand-picked for me no less, by sending me a pic of you on a date with another guy?_

**ATPtoPlease:** _unimportant, P’. what’s your gut tell you: good guy bad guy just a guy?_

**Tumcial:** _If you’re asking me this bc there’s actually a chance you’re in danger by being with him I’m going to kill you myself, this isn’t funny._

“P’Gun, whoever you’re talking to is a total buzzkill.” Oab laughed into Gun’s shoulder. “And what is this app, anyway?”

“Hold on, let me make sure he doesn’t try to call the cops on you and then I’ll explain.”

**ATPtoPlease:** _he’s an irl friend, not someone i met here, worry-wart. he should be more weary of u than u are of him lol._

**Tumcial:** _Why does it matter how I feel about him, then?_

**ATPtoPlease:** _curious._

**Tumcial:** _What else are you curious about?_

Gun sighed, shoved his phone back in his pocket. 

“He really is no fun, and that annoys me but also kind of makes me want to talk to him more, which I am well aware makes no sense.” 

Petting Oab’s hair somehow felt like soothing himself, and Gun bumped his head gently against his puppy of a new nong before moving so he could talk to Oab face-to-face. 

“How did you meet him?” Oab prompted with a casual sip of his drink, as if such a question was simple to ask and simpler to answer. 

And maybe it could be, with alcohol tingling across Gun’s skin and Oab’s understanding eyes dancing across Gun’s face. 

“Um, it’s kind of a long story, but the short version is that this guy, P’Off, offered to pay my rent if I found him the shirt he was wearing in that picture.”

“Wait, that doesn’t make any sense. There has to be a catch, right? Who in their right mind does that? Are you sure this weird old man—“

“—he’s only two years older than you—“

“—isn’t trying to wear your skin like a coat or something?”

The stereo vibrating the walls in this small apartment switched to a new song, and the living room cheered in perfect timing to celebrate the thought of Gun’s skin becoming a runway-ready garment. 

Gun laughed for how absurd all of this was. 

“Okay, if I explain the full context can you swear by the honor of Blue Shoe Crew not to judge me too much? I promise I’m doing the best I can given the circumstances.”

Sensing that Gun was nervous to tell him all of this, Oab softened his concern and nodded, ready to hear Gun out.

He didn’t provide every detail, but he told enough for Oab to understand the rent, the last six months, the confusing way Off entered all of this, and the unspoken confession that the entire story told—that Gun was gay. 

To Oab’s credit and Gun’s relief, Oab didn’t flinch even once, not through any of it. 

“So he’s actually the _least likely_ person you’ve talked to on that app who would want to wear your skin like a coat, noooooow I get it. But I still don’t understand why he’s working with you at all, then. Suspicious that he doesn’t want a pseudo-relationship or virtual sex or…real sex, I guess. And from how you’re talking, he’s a bit of a douchebag?”

Gun didn’t have an answer for any of that, so he only nodded.

“Wait. He asked what you were curious about, right? Let’s just ask him.”

“Ask him what?”

“His intentions.”

Gun agreed, but only if Oab would do the typing.

**ATPtoPlease:** _Why are you on this app?_

“It only just occurred to me how suggestive your username is,” Oab noted while they stood against the kitchen counter, huddled around Gun’s phone, waiting for Off to reply. 

“Listen, the market is oversaturated, I had to do something to stand out.”

“You’re wrong to think your face alone wouldn’t be enough for you to do that.”

Gun had that same feeling he had in the bowling alley, like if anyone else said that to him, he’d have averted his eyes, ducked his head, but even when Oab looked down at his lips, Gun only lifted his chin. 

The vibrating sound of a notification interrupted their stand-off.

**Tumcial:** _I already told you, I have a lot to give._

**ATPtoPlease:** _Why not give to a charity then? There are plenty of ways to be generous that don’t involve sugar babies on sketchy apps_

**Tumcial:** _And there are a lot of ways to make money that don’t involve sugar daddies on sketchy apps. I thought I could give people an out if they needed one, no strings attached. Not that there’s anything wrong with the sex work people do here, but I know the kinds of shitty people that are attracted to situations like this._

“He’s not wrong,” Gun whispered in the corner of the kitchen.

“And you just told me you were grateful he didn’t want anything else from you, so he’s doubly not wrong. I’m not convinced he isn’t an asshole, but I don’t think he’s a creep, at least. His logic makes sense.”

Oab offered to refill their drinks after passing the phone back over. Gun didn’t know how much more liquor his stomach could handle, but Gun allowed him to take his cup anyway.

**ATPtoPlease:** _I understand now, P’. Thank you for explaining more. I’ve been interacting with a bunch of shitty people, so you can imagine how confused I was when you weren’t asking me to send you pictures of my ass._

**Tumcial:** _Disappointed?_

**ATPtoPlease:** _Now that I’ve seen your face, no :p_

**Tumcial:** _Wow, I send you ten times the price of this shirt and this is how you repay me?_

**ATPtoPlease:** _How would you like me to repay you, then? How do I get next month’s rent, too?_

Gun hoped Oab didn’t come back with a friend of his for Gun to meet. His palms were sweaty, and his heart was racing.

**Tumcial:** _I had a thought earlier today, but it’s late, and I know you’re hanging out with your friend. Do you think we could talk in more detail tomorrow? I’m going to give you my number first, and you can decide when and if to call me. Ball is totally in your court, okay? No pressure._

When Oab did return, it was with two glasses of water and a kind grin.

With ice cooling his tongue and Off’s number saved in his phone, Gun asked Oab if he wanted to dance, and for the first time that night, they did.

*

Personal stylist to marketing agent Off Jumpol became Gun’s most reliable source of income. 

The logistics took a while to figure out—Off became busy with a project and Gun went on vacation with Jennie—but they eventually settled on an agreement that worked well for them both: Gun would spend Saturdays shopping with Off in exchange for monthly rent payments.

“I pay you to help me spend even more money,” Off had said during their third phone call, the first in which they were actually able to talk for more than a few minutes at a time. His voice was harsh, not unlike his texts, but the sound of Off’s laugh soothed over any sting Gun might have otherwise felt. 

“You should have messaged me about something cheaper,” was Gun’s retort. “This is your fault.”

“You should have cheaper taste. This is _your_ fault.”

“ _You_ should have a job that requires you to look less put together.”

“You should have a job that pays _you_ enough to afford a roof over your head.”

He did now, thankfully, and not just a well-paying job, but one he was already qualified for given his work at the boutique, one that didn’t cause him to overthink. It wasn’t the schooling he wasn’t meant for nor the acting he was expending more energy toward than he was being rewarded with. If Gun ignored the dubious circumstances that caused them to meet, this situation was ideal rather than shameful. 

And even more ideal once Gun saw that Off wasn’t totally hopeless, despite his online shopping tendencies. 

To get to know each other better, Off had suggested they meet at a coffee shop prior to the first official weekend of Gun’s employment, and when a tall, thin, toothy-grinned guy threw himself down in the booth Gun was lucky enough to secure in a secluded back corner, he found himself letting out a small sigh of relief. 

He could work with this.

Off's style was plain, not unlike Gun’s own when he was lounging around: a white t-shirt tucked into loose-fitting jeans; a colorful necklace falling just past the neckline; hair parted and pushed back away from this face. He was essentially a blank canvas. Shoulders were as broad as Gun had noticed them to be in the one picture Off had sent; legs were a lovely length for the size of his waist. A fitted jacket, a belt from Mook’s boutique, a silk shirt cut low enough—

"Hey, eyes up here."

Gun blinked in quick succession, realizing he wasn’t in a virtual styling video game. The coffee shop wasn’t well-lit; the dark brown carpet and mismatched chairs were far from a runway. 

Off was real and in front of him and kind of his boss now.

A good impression was probably a good idea.

"Hi."

Nailed it.

Off rolled his eyes. "You don’t have to be nervous—“

"I'm not."

"Are you sure?"

"Very." He tried harder than he wanted to admit to seem aloof. “So, what did you want to talk about before we start this?”

Gun tried not to look down as Off folded his long fingers together on the top of the table. “Your name, first and foremost. I have you saved in my phone as ATPtoPlease, and I don’t know how it’s possible you didn’t introduce yourself once while we were talking on the phone. I mean, I can call you ATPtoPlease if you want—“

Gun waved his hands frantically in the space between them. “You can call me Gun. Gun Atthaphan.”

In a contradiction to the situation and the setting, Off stuck out his hand. 

"Off Jumpol."

Barely a brush of skin before the handshake was over. 

"You should probably be asking more questions than I am,” he continued. “Don’t you need to know what clothes I’m looking for and for what occasions? We can be as productive as possible on Saturday if we’re both on the same page.”

Off only wanting to know his name was a relief Gun didn’t know he was in need of. With similar, interview-like efficiency, he figured out where Off was interested in shopping and that he needed both work and everyday clothes. The business casual attire Off described was typical of those who frequented the boutique, and the Hawaiian shirts, graphic Tees, and neutral basics he favored on a regular basis were standard enough that Gun asked outright why it was Off wanted a stylist at all. 

“My job requires me to think about arrangement and aesthetic and message every single day,” he explained. “in my personal life, I think only about the function of things. I’m practical, cheap even. The exact opposite of the consumer I’m usually trying to market to.”

"And you're not happy with that anymore?”

"Honestly, I’m getting old, and there are plenty of young people in this industry who look the part way more than I do and who could take my job at any time.” Off was bouncing his leg up and down under the table; Gun could see his glass of water trembling out of the corner of his eye. “I basically lucked into the position I have now, so I’m trying to keep up.”

Being frequently told a myriad of reasons why he wasn’t right for a part, including age, height, nose, smile, voice tone, and lack of conventional masculinity, Gun understood to a degree. If he could afford an acting coach who could help mold him into someone more audition-friendly, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

He didn't say any of that, though. “Luckily I’m _much_ younger and more stylish than you are, so you’re in just the right place.”

"A coffee shop thirteen blocks from my condo with a guy who ordered no coffee and said nothing unless I directly prompted him to?”

"I saved you from having to offer to pay for my order, and I respected your time, actually.”

“I wouldn't have offered to pay for you, anyway.”

Gun probably should have scoffed, but he was shaking his head with an incredulous smile instead. As annoying as Off could be, and he was undoubtedly obnoxious, something about the bickering put Gun at ease. This didn’t have to be in any way different from talking to him online. 

In such gruffness, there was little room for surprise. 

And Gun didn’t like surprises. 

*

It seemed like a good idea at the time to take Off to the boutique for the first shopping trip that weekend, to tell Mook that Off was one of his acting friends who didn’t know about his day job and to tell Off absolutely nothing about his relationship to Mook or this store. He’d have the most control over a potentially dangerous swapping of misinformation this way, he thought. Playing things close to the chest was the only way he knew how. 

But when Mook gave him a suggestive thumbs up just beats before Off loudly proclaimed the store to be too exorbitant, Gun regretted all of that. 

Off did look out of place, really, in his beanie and joggers standing in the middle of Mook’s aesthetic—pale pink walls with scattered antique frames, minimalist white desk, lace and silk and chiffon. 

"If you want a change, you’re going to have to try something out of your comfort zone, old man. If you want to look like you’re the boss all the newbies should be looking up to, you should look _expensive_ , even if you don’t feel it.”

Mook smiled from her place at the register, and Gun felt pride he assumed was similar to that of an older sibling’s approval blooming in his stomach.

With more confidence, he pushed on Off’s back so he’d step toward the dress pants and corresponding tops, and with less complaining than Gun would have guessed, Off allowed him to pick out several outfits. 

"He's much taller than you,” Mook whispered as they waited outside of the dressing room. 

A "captain obvious" reply would have been warranted, but honestly, Gun hadn’t even noticed just how much of a height difference there was until they both stood up to leave the coffee shop during the first meeting. 

Off must have been slouching; Gun must have been practicing perfect posture. They both must have been stunned when Off could have easily placed his chin on the top of Gun’s head because neither of them moved, and Off was then the one staring. He looked like he’d only just now realized Gun was an entire form, not just a profile picture, in this moment rather than all the others where they’d been chatting.

“I'm jealous of how perfect his legs are for high-waisted pants,” Gun whined. 

"I've been trying to convince you for months to wear something tight-fitted around your waist, you could also pull this look off, if you stopped wearing shirts that are three sizes too big.”

If Gun had the gift of foresight, he would have worn something to prove her wrong; as it stood, Mook could pull at the oversized, overly-opulent sweater hanging well past his hips to punctuate her point. 

He swatted her hands away and righted the fabric back where he liked it. Showing waist or chest wasn’t his preference, but Gun had no problem with exposing shoulders and legs. 

"What's taking so long?” he asked when Mook had to drift back to the front of the store at the chiming of a customer’s arrival. 

Off's huff echoed easily around the otherwise empty dressing room area. “I can’t figure out how the fuck these pants are supposed to work, why are there so many straps? How am I supposed to get to work on time if I have to do this every morning?”

"You're being so dramatic, let me see.”

"Hey!" Off yelped when Gun pulled back the curtain separating them, even though he was technically fully dressed. “What are you doing?”

"What does it look like? I’m helping. Come here.”

Pulling Off by the waist, Gun examined what was causing the delay. Four thick straps were meant to criss-cross the extended band of the black fitted slacks he’d picked out. Somehow, only one of those straps was actually on the front of the pants. Gun spun Off around, issuing another yelp, to see that the others were bunched at his back. He said as much while touching the places where the straps should have been on Off’s stomach. 

"Take them off and try again,” Gun suggested as he admired how nicely the top already looked with the pants, even in this state.

When Off didn't reply or move, Gun thought to look up, where eyes were clearly searching for something Off thought he could find in Gun’s own face. 

“What?” 

“You make no sense.”

Gun yanked on the strap he was still holding. 

“Why?”

“You were so hesitant to talk to me yesterday and now you’re flinging me across the dressing room.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” 

“I’m not, I’m just calling it like it is: you’re shy with your words but confident with your hands.” Off lifted his eyebrows. “Good to know.”

To hide the blush he knew was spreading across his cheeks, Gun quickly stepped out of the makeshift door of the curtain and tried to _breathe_. Such a task was difficult given the suffocating sound of Off’s cackle.

By the time Off finally modeled the outfit he had rightly put on, Gun figured his embarrassment was clear from his face. He would credit his acting career for how easily he could hide what he didn’t want to be seen, but for as long as he could remember, Gun found amusement, almost, in being able to control his emotions. He’d make himself cry in the car so suddenly his mother would slam on the brakes, terrified. 

To those who knew him and his ticks well, Gun was painfully transparent. He took pride, though, in being able to hide all that he could from anyone who he hadn’t yet let in. And Off was a million miles away from being worthy of seeing anything authentic. 

So Off received a perfected mask of indifference when the curtain open once more. 

Gun eyed the pull of his waist, the dip of the collar, the flair at his ankles. He would never in a million years show it, but Off looked kind of hot. 

Until he opened his mouth. 

“Where in the hell am I wearing this to?”

"Work" was Gun's obvious answer. 

"You think a client is going to trust me when I’m pitching a new marketing strategy with half my chest out?”

"Okay, we can switch out the shirt,” Gun conceded. “But you should still buy it for a fancy event or a date, and then we’ll find something more conservative to balance the statement pants. Deal?”

With a nod, yet another compromise was struck between them.

With a couple more hours of bickering, badgering, and bags, the first day of shopping was completed between them.

"Are we always going to buy this much?” Off asked as they waved at Mook on the way out of the boutique. Gun regretted not having thought to put sunglasses in his bag when the early afternoon sky welcomed him onto the sidewalk. He only had to squint for a moment, though, when Off turned to face him, large bags swaying, blocking the harshest rays of the sun. Perhaps because of the shadow or perhaps because of the time, Off’s face was softer, more relaxed. Like even though his words were accusatory, his eyes were grateful. 

“We can look for anything you need. We could even clean out your closet and replace old basics. I mean you _were_ trying to buy a shirt my dad bought when he was twenty-five. I’m sure there’s other work to be done.”

“Forget every other weekend, you should just be my live-in stylist. I won’t even have to think about my pajamas because you’ll pick them out for me.”

The thought of being in Off’s bedroom, watching him slide into silk sheets, had Gun’s eyes darting anywhere but Off’s face. 

"I...was just kidding. Man you really do get shy if you aren’t manhandling me, don’t you? 

Even though it only confirmed that accusation, Gun pushed at Off’s chest in the best response he could muster. 

“Come on," Off said happily while he laughed. He turned to head back toward his car and the sun returned to Gun’s eyes. “Do you want a late lunch, early dinner before I drop you back off?”

“Uh—“

"I will pay this time, if that matters.”

Gun didn't know what mattered aside from the vague alarm bells in his head.

"You can say no, I won't be offended.”

Imagining they were texting allowed Gun to speak instead of to sprint. 

“And if I say yes, what will you be, P’?”

"Less hungry."

And with that, the bells quieted. 

*

Out of all of the downsides to working with Off that Gun imagined, being unable to buy all of the drinks he could now afford at usual Friday nights with the girls would not have been at the top of the list. It took just one Saturday morning with a headache so painful Gun had to tell Off that the staff at the store they were entering would kick out anyone who was being overly boisterous—to which, surprisingly, Off dutifully and dumbly listened—for Gun to realize he shouldn’t compromise the idyllic schedule he’d adapted over the past few months:

Afternoon shifts at the boutique every weekday.

Auditions when they cropped up, usually in the mornings and almost always on Mondays for some satanic reason. 

Shoots when the auditions went well, whenever they were held and never with any question from Mook, his friends, or Off if he needed to miss a day of work or fun. 

Friday nights at the bar.

Saturdays shopping. 

Sundays catching up on all of the housework he put off during the week.

He was busy, and not necessarily in the way he ever thought he would be, but it was refreshing not to be sitting around waiting for what he was never sure would come. 

“Ohhh, this is nice,” Kwang said when Gun sat down at their usual table with his one allotted drink for the night. 

On the hand wrapped around the glass, was a ring. 

Off, while willing to buy himself whatever expensive clothing Gun forced into his hands, was repeatedly critical of Gun’s own spending habits. Despite knowing that he was in the best financial position of his adult life and without knowing anything else about Gun to have reason enough to give advice, Off encouraged him to save, to stay responsible, to send money home to his dad and younger siblings. 

The one time he didn’t listen was in buying this ring. It was a reward rather than a risk; a badge of pride worn over what had once been shame. 

When Gun explained as much to Off, he acquiesced with more understanding than Gun expected to see in the middle of a mall where teenagers passed by them on either side, tentatively holding hands. 

For their last stop of the day, Off became the stylist. 

“This one’s pretty,” he said, almost to himself, before asking the jeweler if they could try it on, and once Gun had slid the diamond-encrusted band on his middle finger, Off held one hand under Gun’s palm and the other touching delicately at the ring where it met Gun’s skin. 

He hadn’t paid much attention to Off’s hands before now, and in a moment where Gun should have been looking at his own, he was taking stock of how Off’s fingers matched the rest of him—long, slender, unremarkable but somehow mesmerizing. 

“Looks like it was made for you,” Off assessed as he let go of Gun’s palm. “I’d suggest going with that one.”

“Did you get engaged when I wasn’t looking?” Jennie asked at the first Friday night gathering since the ring arrived at his apartment with appropriate sizing. “You’re not allowed to get married before your P’, I won’t allow it.”

“You think I’d skip all of those _dating_ and _sex_ and _moving in together_ steps and fast forward to the marriage part without telling you?”

“You’ve done more outlandish things, Atthaphan.”

“Remember when you drove through the night to a concert you didn’t have a ticket to, explicitly against your dad’s wishes, with no hotel booked, and with no one you knew even in attendance? You barely knew any of the artists who were performing.” 

“I got in, didn’t I?”

Kwang nodded without fight.

“Or when you let some meathead pierce your ears under the bleachers in high school because you liked how close he had to stand to you in order to do it,” Nook added. 

“Hey, closeted-confusion cannot be held against me, and the infection only lasted like a week.”

“So what excuse do you have for pulling all the shit you do now?”

“P’Jennie, do you have any room to talk,” Gun fired back, “when you were so shamelessly flirting with that other bartender, Ssing, who was half your age?”

Turning to the right and left to wordlessly ask if anyone else in the bar was hearing such an accusation, Jennie feigned offense even though her response was this: “And I’d still be doing it, too, if he didn’t quit without asking for my number.”

“Maybe he quit _because_ of you,” Nook suggested, and then Jennie’s open-mouthed indignation was pointed towards her part of the table. 

“He liked it! Your back is always to the bar so you couldn’t see it, but he was smiling at me while he was pouring other people’s drinks. Actually, wait. Maybe he got _fired_ because of me—distracted on the job, this is so sad.” 

While Gun laughed at Kwang reaching over the table to wipe a tear not falling down Jennie’s cheek, his phone vibrated. 

**Off Jumpol:**  
Would it be okay if we did the evening instead of the morning tomorrow, and you came to my house instead of going out shopping?  
I thought I’d take you up on the offer to work on my closet.  
If I don’t get rid of some things I’m just going to keep wearing my same old crap while the nice stuff you picked out for me stays in the bags they came in.

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** Please tell me you haven’t left all of those clothes to wrinkle where they’re folded in shopping bags.  
P’, please tell me you’re joking.  
I’m begging you.

**Off Jumpol:**  
.-.  
This is why I need your help!!!

At this point, Gun should have known that Off wasn’t one to lie, but he still found himself in pain the following night, standing in the middle of Off’s impressively large bedroom, where the floor was covered in all of the shopping bags they’d accumulated over the past several trips. 

Honestly, if Gun had as much money as Off did, his room would probably look worse. As it was, though, he was living just barely above paycheck-to-paycheck, wearing designer knockoffs, and littering his floor with dirty clothes, like any disillusioned millennial should. 

“The rest of the house isn’t this bad,” was Off’s only way of introducing Gun to the problem in his bedroom. From what he saw on his way here, Gun thought that to be true. 

Similar to his personal style, Off’s house seemed to be purposefully plain but fairly furnished. What he did have—a large sectional, a big screen tv, a marbled kitchen island—clearly cost money, but in the romance-novel-ceo version of ‘Tumcial’ that Gun imagined when they first started talking, he would have walked into a high-ceilinged mansion tonight. 

Instead, Off’s sheets didn’t match his comforter and his closet was average enough for Gun to actually agree that fitting everything they’d bought into the space required a decluttering.

“Should we make some piles?” he suggested. “Keep, donate, trash?”

Overgrown bangs flopped into Off’s eyes as he nodded. 

As they worked, it became clear that this Saturday wasn’t unlike their usual mornings. Gun picked items out of the closet, asked Off to try them on, and they decided together which pile they belonged to. 

In clothes more than in any other subject, Off tended to listen to Gun’s recommendations. 

“Now this,” Gun decided when Off stepped out of the makeshift changing room of his en suite bathroom, “is what you should be keeping.”

The pink sweater contrasted both the sharp lines Gun was forcing Off to buy for work and the graphic shirts stacked in overflowing piles on the top shelf of his closet.

It was loose-fitting but in a way that wasn’t baggy; the colorful horizontal lines accentuated those shoulders Gun never seemed to forget. Loud, befitting of Off’s personality, but still stylish. 

“Tuck this in.”

Gun stepped forward from where he stood by the bed to unbutton and unzip the black dress pants Off was also trying on. The combination was serendipitous but exactly appropriate, and Gun started the intricate task of pushing the fabric down next to Off’s boxers only to pull some of it back out to hang over the waistband. Off just stood there, staring, while Gun’s hands worked; when Gun shuffled back to the closet to grab a thin belt, only Off’s eyes followed him. 

Reaching around his back to slide the leather through the back-most loops, Gun rested his head on Off’s chest. 

“You smell good,” he noted, just because Off did, and when the impromptu ensemble was complete and Gun put space back between them, the room seemed to be filled with only Off’s cologne. “Wait—a necklace would look good. Where’s your jewelry?”

In increasingly uncharacteristic silence, Off pointed toward a dresser opposite the bed where Gun fetched a beaded necklace adorned with large yellow smiley faces and black dice. 

“Perfect,” he mumbled while trying to clasp the band. 

Gun was standing on his tip-toes, arms around Off’s neck, lips clumsily brushing skin with attention focused on fumbling fingers. 

Only once he finally got it hooked did he notice hands on his hips. 

“Sorry,” Gun said, but he didn’t move, and neither did Off. “You probably could have done that yourself, couldn’t you?”

“I could have accomplished every single thing we’ve ever done together by myself, technically.” 

“Why haven’t you told me to fuck off then?”

“I—“

“Off Jumpol,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted. “You never let _me_ hug you like this, I’m actually offended right now.” 

Off practically threw Gun toward the bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over, Tay?” Off asked with an awkward laugh and a nervous scratch at the back of his neck where Gun’s hands had just been. 

Whoever Tay was spoke with a smile when he teased that Off was 99% likely to be playing video games on a Saturday night. His face was long and his smile was lovely and Gun almost asked why Off didn’t just take advice from this handsome guy before he noticed his toes were visible through holey-socks. 

“Gun, this is my best friend, Tay Tawan, and Tay, this is the stylist I told you about who’s been helping me with my wardrobe.” 

They were standing in too awkwardly spaced of a triangle for such introductions, but Tay didn’t seem to mind that or the position they’d been in when he came in or the fact that Gun was in Off’s house at all. He came forward, shook Gun’s hand, and amused himself with trying to put his arms in a similar place on Off’s shoulders. Off, not entertaining him for even a moment, mimed slitting his throat, to which Tay dramatically stumbled backwards and onto the bed. 

“You should be nicer to me. Even though you don’t let me cuddle you, I brought you dinner that’s healthier than anything you’d make yourself, old man. You won’t die on me yet.”

Off kicked at the sole of Tay’s foot sticking out past the mattress. “Did you bring enough for Nong?”

“If I didn’t, you’d give him my portion, wouldn’t you?

No answer was given, but Tay seemed to take Off leaving the room as answer enough. He mouthed a _yes_ at Gun before knocking his head back against the sheet while he laughed. 

Tay Tawan was quite beautiful in how effortlessly he lightened some unnamed weight that had settled heavier and heavier in Gun’s chest as the piles of clothes had grown bigger, in how easily he seemed to look at-home sprawled across Off’s bed. 

The latter, at least, had an explanation that wasn’t just inherent effervescence. 

“We lived together right after we graduated from college,” Tay explained while they unhelpfully sat on Off’s couch waiting to be served the food Off was busy plating. “It was this hole-in-the-wall studio apartment with room for one small couch and one bed. The kitchen was the size of the island in this one.”

Gun looked over at Off taking up such little room in the open space of his house and tried to imagine him in his own modest apartment. In his kitchen, his bedroom, his bed. 

“Has he changed much?” Gun asked instead of letting that image fill up his head. 

No topic appeared immune from Tay’s glowing grin. “He was stubborn then and he is now. He’s always been much softer than he tries to seem. Don’t let his tough shell fool you. Well, I guess it hasn’t anyway, since he’s letting you touch him.”

“You were serious about that?”

“Serious about what?” Off echoed as he sat their dinner out on the coffee table aligned with the corner of the sectional. Though there was room enough for all of them and probably seven more, Off sat on the floor across from Tay and Gun. 

In a silent alliance, neither of them answered that.

After a meal prayer, Gun thanked Tay for the food. 

“I pay your salary, you don’t thank me for that,” Off complained grumpily before shoving a bite into his mouth. 

“You can add ‘easily insecure’ to that list of ways he’s still the same,” Tay said to Gun, and then to Off: “I’m not going to steal the ‘cute stylist nong’ from you, I promise.”

Gun almost choked on the rice he swallowed far too early. “Is that what you called me?”

“Absolutely not,” Off replied to his plate. 

Clearing his throat, Tay read out a text off the phone he held in one hand while he prevented Off from grabbing at him from across the coffee table with the other. 

“‘The cute stylist nong took me to a store I think you would like.’ Don’t be embarrassed, Off, all of those words are factual: he is your nong, he is your stylist, and,” Tay reached over to pet at Gun’s hair, “he is cute.”

Gun felt high on the blush he saw brushed across Off’s cheeks. 

He leaned his head on Tay’s shoulder, Tay’s fingers still in his hair, just to see what Off’s reaction might be.

He regretted that almost immediately.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Off replied. “Gun would have to be more than cute to make me shy.”

Gun hid, embarrassed, behind Tay’s shoulder without thought, and Tay leaned all of his weight back on Gun, cackling, also without much thought. 

“Why am I the one who’s embarrassed,” Tay said, now checking to make sure he hadn’t accidentally hurt Gun. 

“Okay, okay.” Off waved a white flag. “Let’s just eat before the food gets cold.”

Between Tay’s detailed explanations of where their dinner originated from and Gun’s inability to stop reconciling this new understanding he had of Off with the one he thought he understood just one day prior, Gun’s food did indeed get cold and the closet remained half finished. 

He left with Tay, much later into the night than he would have planned, who asked for his number in the driveway, but it was Off who Gun texted when he got home. 

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** Thank you  
I know I haven’t said it since we started working together in person, but thank you.  
For not telling even P’Tay about the sugaring thing.  
For everything else, too.

**Off Jumpol:**  
I was kidding, Gun.  
You don’t have anything to thank me for anything.  
You’re doing me a favor more than I’m helping you out. 

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** You never got to answer when I asked why you were still paying me when you don’t really need me to do any of this for you.

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** I was probably going to say something sarcastic, but here’s a real answer.  
I think you’re making me a better version of myself.  
Not just in the way I dress.  
I feel more confident when I’m wearing what you picked out for me. When you tell me I look good in something, I believe you.  
And I think I’m communicating better with my team since we’ve been working together.

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** Why?

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** I used to just assume I would never understand them because we seemed so different.  
But you and I are very different, and I feel like I understand you.

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** You understand that I’m cute.  
What else?

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** You’ll never let me live that down, will you?

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** No.  
Now go on.

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** Bossy, bossy  
You don’t like to be embarrassed.  
You don’t like for people to misunderstand you.  
You like to be in control.  
You’re unwaveringly focused when you’re doing something you’re good at.  
You’re not irresponsible so much as you like to feel free and you hate feeling constrained, by anything or any one.  
You prefer to talk to me about something serious when we’re texting rather than when we’re talking in person, like right now.  
You charm everyone around you without realizing it.

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** You’ve been paying attention to me a lot, haven’t you, P’?

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** One more.  
You almost always redirect with a joke when you don’t want to show so much vulnerability.

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** Okay, fair.  
I’ll just tell you that I don’t know what to say this time instead of trying to joke.

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** You don’t have to say anything.  
You just also don’t have to thank me.  
I don’t want you to feel indebted to me because of how all of this started.  
Let me feel indebted to you. 

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** Okay.  
Thanks, P’.  
Not for any of that, but for all of this. 

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** Go to bed, Gun.  
I’ll see you next week. 

He would have gone to bed if _more than cute, more than cute, more than cute_ wasn’t racing through his mind, wasn’t projected like a huge LED sign around his room, illuminating the darkness, pulling him away from sleep.

He was pushed toward a picture. Gun took twenty versions—all up close on his lips, tongue wetting one corner of his mouth, lighting otherwise low except for the flash on his face—and after allowing Jennie to choose her favorite, uploaded the photo to his Instagram story with “more than cute” as the caption. 

Off viewed the story almost instantly, and it was while staring at his username, contemplating how much he would read into that, Gun received one more text notification.

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** Or what if we finished the closet tomorrow?  
If you’re free.  
We can start earlier, around noon.  
And I’ll pay you extra.

Gun threw his face into his pillow for three long breaths before picking his phone back up to reply.

**Gun Atthaphan:** **  
** I’ll be there.  
Sweet dreams, P’. 

*

Gun slept like shit. 

What use was there in going back to Off’s house today if there were larger bags under his eyes than on the bedroom floor? 

Off didn’t seem to notice, however, when upon opening his front door, he fixed only on Gun’s mouth. 

An Instagram username was nothing compared to Off watching him like this in person. There was no need to imagine what he might have been thinking or feeling or doing after watching last night’s story when Gun could see the doubt and the want and the question all in his face right now, right in front of him.

This would have been harder behind the security of a screen. Gun would have needed to be wrapped up in his comforter to compose the perfect response, to try to illicit the perfect reaction.

Here, Off standing in a plain t-shirt with wet hair, clearly nervous and unsure but with eyes so determined, it felt effortless to take two steps into the house and to let Off kiss him.

To kiss him back.

To kiss him harder. 

“Wait-Wait—“ Off pushed Gun away from him, but only by an arm’s length. He held onto Gun’s shoulders, steadying them both, while the sounds of deep breaths filled the space between them for longer than Gun wanted. “We probably shouldn’t do this, right? I’m okay if we really do just work on the closet. Please tell me this is a bad idea.”

Being faced with the question so directly as opposed to the machinations he played behind his eyelids as he tried to sleep, Gun had no doubt in his answer.

He took one large step forward, wrapped his arms around Off’s waist. “P’, you should be the irresponsible one for once.” 

Off considered that; Gun was fascinated to see his resolve crumble in real-time, right in front of him.

“What the fuck have you done to me?” Off whispered, pulling Gun even closer, one hand on his hip, the other with fingers on his neck and thumb on his cheek. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

With an almost imperceptible head shake, Off touched his thumb to Gun’s bottom lip. The pressure was light, in contrast to the moment, but it seemed to satisfy Off’s fixation on his mouth, because he moved up to Gun’s eyes with more certainty than in all of the seconds they’d ever spent together combined. 

But he still didn’t move.

Only when Gun was the one to lean in, to touch his lips to Off’s more slowly, to lick into his mouth more deliberately, with hands roaming underneath his shirt for the first time, despite all the times he’d felt this skin through fabric, did Off start to believe him—that it was okay for him to want this, that Gun wanted this too. 

The next time they broke apart, Off was reluctant to let Gun go. 

“Come here,” he said as he grabbed Gun’s hand and led him back to the bedroom. Halfway down the hallway, piercing through all of the other thoughts ricocheting rapidly around Gun’s mind, was the realization that the past several minutes were the most Off had ever touched him. 

It felt like his first drink being a three-day-long drunken binger. 

And how could he ever go back to before knowing what Off’s hand felt like in his, what his tongue tasted like, what his eyes were like when they were filled with this much want? 

Stepping over piles of clothes, Off sat near the edge of his bed, didn’t even take time to scoot back to the headboard, and pulled Gun into his lap. His mouth was back on him quickly, with his hands now scraping across Gun’s back, fingers dipping below the waistband of his shorts. Frustrated by the barrier pooled around Gun’s waist by his usual oversized shirt, Off pulled it off for him. 

Gun held his breath, terrified for a moment that seeing any part of him without clothes would send Off running, regretting that it was the afternoon and not the night, where the large windows in his bedroom wouldn’t shine so brightly on the decisions they were making. 

But Off just pulled him in for a hug instead, holding Gun as close to him as he could. 

Gun shifted so that his legs were wrapped around Off’s back rather than bent at his knees, and he buried his face in Off’s neck, where he kissed him even still. Small pecks at first, just to feel his lips on him again; then, when Off tipped his head to the side and clenched the arms around his waist, Gun went further, pulling the skin into his mouth, sucking and licking and grinding his hips down all the time.

“Fuck,” Off breathed out. “I want to see you.”

Gun didn’t know what state he was in when he leaned back onto his thighs, but Off was so enraptured that roaming his eyes over every bit of him seemed satisfying enough. 

Gun, on the other hand, squirmed with the imbalance of such attention.

“P’, please,” he whined, uncaring of how much of a brat he might have sounded like. 

Off might have even liked bratty. Running a patronizing hand through Gun’s hair, he smirked. “Please what?” 

“Touch me. Or let me touch you. Or move. Or _something_.”

When Off seemed happy still to let him beg, Gun got up off his lap completely. 

The effect was less of a statement than he had hoped when the tenting of his shorts was so much more obviously on display than it had been when he was sitting. 

Gun dropped to his knees, promptly, to reverse the teasing he was sure would come to him, but not before Off was leaning down, seeming unable to stop, to leave small bites to his bottom lip. 

“You knew exactly what you were doing last night, didn’t you?” Another kiss. Another bite. “I couldn’t sleep for two hours because I just kept thinking about your mouth—“ Gun watched Off as Off watched him pointedly lick his lips. “—fuck—wrapped around me.”

Gun squeezed his thighs together and tried taking back some semblance of control by asking Off to lean back. 

There was little reason to have been embarrassed about his own pants, when Off was clearly just as aroused. Gun wanted to mouth at him over the fabric, cloth against his tongue, so he tried not to overthink it too much as he tipped himself forward. 

The elicited moan told Gun that no matter what he did, Off was likely to respond. If he ignored everything he’d thought before he came here today, Gun had no reason to doubt that Off wanted him. 

With that security, he did not hesitate to pull down Off’s shorts and boxers. 

“I like your thighs” Gun whispered against the inside of his leg. 

Goosebumps appeared everywhere his breath reached. 

“I like everything about you,” he added, lips touching now, increasingly close to where Off wanted his mouth to be. 

“Please,” Off let out just a second before Gun had planned to put him out of his misery. 

Gun smiled and peered up to see the results of his patience: Off’s mouth hung dumbly open; his bangs stuck to his forehead.

His legs started to tremble, so Gun finally gave Off that which he waited for. 

“H-holy _shit_.” 

Only thing better than the weight of Off in his mouth and the sounds of his moans echoing around the house was the feeling of Off’s hand petting his hair with each bob of his head. 

Gun returned this affection as much as he could with his eyes: no matter how stretched his lips or how achey his jaw, he kept saying _you’re perfect, you’re perfect, you’re perfect_ with eye contact he refused to break. 

Off wasn’t as composed. When Gun’s hands—alternating between his thighs, his balls, and the bottom of his shaft—and mouth—alternating between licking, sucking, and swirling—worked especially perfect in tandem, Off was clenching his eyes shut tightly. 

Efforts to force Off’s attention back on him backfired, when the faster his tongue flicked against the most sensitive skin under the head, the faster Off started fucking his hips up into Gun’s mouth rather than once more looking down at him. 

Unacceptable. 

Gun held Off’s hips down to the bed, gave one final kitten lick, and climbed back into his lap.

“What—“

“I thought you said you wanted to see me?” Gun teased, and when Off opened his mouth to reply, Gun surged forward, slipping his tongue against Off’s, letting him taste what Gun was tasting.

“I want to see all of you,” he reassured against Gun’s lips. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Gun’s shorts. “Can I?” 

Gun lifted his hips so he could slide them off easier. 

“You’re beautiful,” Gun heard, as he became the coward with the shut eyes the moment Off’s fingers touched him. “I hope you know that. I’ll remind you again and again and again.”

“God,” Gun panted. 

Gun was arched back, hands propped onto the tops of Off’s knees to steady the movement of his hips as he pushed into Off’s hand at the pace he wanted—strokes long and even and with a twist of his wrist over the head. 

“Don’t stop,” he begged when the warmth around him disappeared without warning. He dared to look again, if only to show how annoyed he was. 

“I’m not, I’m not. Here—“ Off held his fingers in front of Gun’s mouth. “Open.”

Maybe it was them sitting so much closer together now that made the glance they shared the most intense one yet. Or maybe the pads of Off’s fingers pushing against his tongue was just more obscene than his dick. 

Gun wetted them as well he could, and the near-gagging was worth it when Off wrapped his hand around both of them, together, Off thrusting up while Gun slid forward, sensations varying from every angle in the most delicious way to feel overwhelmed. 

“Oh, fuck—“ 

“You feel so good—“ 

“Please—“

“Yes, yes—“

“Oh, God, I’m close,” Off warned as his wrist quickened. 

“I want to feel you come on me, please, P’.”

Off’s entire body stiffened as he fell over the edge. Gun kept riding toward him until the stimulation became too much. Scooting back just enough avoid accidentally touching him more, Gun gathered the come on his legs and on his stomach and ran his hand up and down his shaft with it, allowing him to slide his fingers easily around his dick as he sought after his own release.

“Holy shit, Gun, you’re fucking incredible, let me help—“

Gun pushed him away with his unoccupied hand. 

“Just watch me. I want your eyes on me, that’s all I want.”

Just as Gun requested, he did. 

He watched and he praised and he ran his hands up and down Gun’s thighs and when Gun came, too, Off kissed him through it, running his fingers once more through Gun’s hair. 

“That was…” Off started when he emerged from his shower after graciously having let Gun wash up first. Gun sat on the couch, not on the bed since the sheets now needed to be changed, in an outfit Off let him borrow. The pants were too long, but the shirt was just how he liked it, and being wrapped in the smell of Off’s detergent kept Gun riding his post-sex high far longer than normal. 

As if any of this was normal.

“Confusingly good,” Off finished. 

Rational thought was finding its way through the arousal by this point, though, and something about hearing the word “confusing” had his bliss braking on a dime. 

Too afraid of hearing the answer for the question he’d have to ask, Gun made a joke instead.

“Don’t get too confused and forget to pay me extra for today’s shift, Boss.”

He tried laughing, but the look on Off’s face was far from amused.

Off froze with a towel ruffled through his hair just a few feet into where the kitchen ended and the living room began. He’d hit the brakes, too, but neither of them could stop fast enough to avoid collision. 

“Is that what that was to you?” He said it softly at first, and then not so softly: “A _business_ transaction?” 

“No—“

“I wouldn’t _pay you_ for sex. I haven’t been paying you for anything other than the styling, I thought I was making that clear?”

“P’—“

“Out of everything you know about me, you think I would do that?” 

Off moved between angry and hurt and offended with each word. 

“Are you going to let me answer you?” Gun was up off the couch now, perhaps to compensate for the wobbling in his voice. “Out of everything you know about _me_ , do you think I’d be accusing you of that?”

“What do I know about you, Gun? What have you shown me besides you coming in my bed?”

“Fuck you. I was making a joke but you’re just being an asshole.” Gun turned towards the front door. “Here’s what I know about you, Off Jumpol: you know you’re a jerk, and you don’t make any effort to change that. You’re a fucking adult—“ he looked back once, “—act like one—“ and slammed the door. 

*

Thank god Nook was home. 

She let him in after just two knocks; she hugged him as soon as she saw his tears.

“Gun, what’s wrong?”

“I have something to tell you,” he struggled out. “I want to tell all of you. Can you invite P’Kwang and P’Jennie over?”

*

Gun had never felt so great of a catharsis as crying out the full truth of this entire situation to his best friends. 

They now knew he never deleted his ‘Sugar So Sweet’ account, that they no longer talked about rent on Friday nights because Off had messaged him on the cursed app, that some indistinct place along the way, they’d become attracted to each other, an unfunny irony to their origins. 

He’d told the story at an appropriate pace: with lots of detail and then with rolling speed. 

No one said anything until he was done. 

“You like him?” Kwang asked gently. She sat on the floor of Nook’s living room with her knees tucked up under her chin while the other three huddled together on the couch. 

The warmth of the fireplace behind her dried what was left of Gun’s wet hair after his shower. 

“Maybe he’s right that we don’t know each other well enough to even say that I like him or he likes me.”

“You don’t know that he doesn’t like you, though,” Nook pointed out. “Ignore what he said tonight, how would you have answered if we asked you that same question right after you hooked up?”

Gun looked down at his hands; he hated himself for wanting to smile at the memory. 

It shouldn’t have even been a memory yet. They had sex in the afternoon—how did the evening turn, like a stranger, to _this_?

“I don’t think there’s a scenario where we would have worked together and I wouldn’t have liked him,” he confessed to them and to himself. “He’s…rude and loud and too careful, and tonight proved that we’re both too hot-headed, but he’s also the opposite of all of that. He’s kind and quiet when he’s shy and he lets me talk him into being reckless sometimes.”

“I can see how that would be attractive and hard to navigate at the same time,” Jennie noted with loving empathy.

“Exactly.” Gun turned toward her. “Like the exact things I like most about him are also the things that probably make us incompatible.”

“I think what makes you two incompatible is that you’re telling us all of this right now and not him,” Nook added. “that he blew up on you without letting you explain and then you left without forcing him to listen.”

“I agree with P’, any couple who thinks they’re perfectly complementary are lying to themselves. All relationships take work. There will always be something to disagree over. What’s important is that you can talk about it and make things as clear as possible. You’re only going to lose him if you don’t try.”

“P’Kwang…” 

Gun left the couch to hug her. With the comforting embrace of his most supportive friend, Gun started to cry again. 

“I love you,” he choked out, and she laughed into his shoulder.

“I know you do.”

“Gun, your phone’s vibrating.” Nook was holding the phone he’d left on the couch in her hand, and notification after notification was lighting up the screen. 

“I think he wants to talk too,” Jennie said. “Go get your man.”

She tossed him the phone, but Gun didn’t try to unlock it.

“What do I even _say_?”

Kwang leaned her head against Gun’s. “Hear him out first, nong. Advocate for what you need going forward and tell him honestly if you can’t meet his needs. If he’s as understanding as you’ve told us, I think he’ll listen to you.”

“Are you sure you couldn’t just text him all of that for me?”

“Were you listening to anything she just told you?” Jennie chastised jokingly.

“Yes, yes.” Gun gave a tired laugh. He felt better, so much better, but he was undoubtedly emotionally drained. “I’ll text you once we’ve talked.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Nook asked as Gun got up to leave.

“No, I think I just want to go lay down and think. I’ll be okay, though. I won’t forget to eat.”

Gun’s three best friends all hugged him one last time, assured him that he could always tell them anything but equally begged him to fucking delete ‘Sugar So Sweet’.

Gun promised that he would.

*

That was the only reason he looked at his phone for the majority of the evening, actually. Once he got back in his car outside of Nook’s house, he quickly swiped past his notifications to remove the app. He then drove home, climbed under the comforter, and fell to much-needed sleep.

When he woke up to the twilight of the setting sun, Gun tried to live in the way he normally would have on a Sunday. Maybe then this would feel real, like Off could be his reality instead of the desperate contingency plan Gun feared this only to be. 

So he ate dinner and cleaned up around his apartment and when his phone vibrated for the first time since he woke up, Gun sat down down in the middle of his kitchen and clicked on his messages.

**Off Jumpol:**  
Gun I’m sorry, I’m an idiot, I should have let you explain  
I don’t know why I’m like this  
I’m not trying to push you away on purpose  
Kind of the opposite lol  
I just don’t know how to not hide  
Rich of me to say you haven’t shown me anything of yourself when I’m the one hiding  
If you’re willing to talk to me, I want to talk  
But the ball is in your court  
I won’t force you  
Just know that today, before that, was nice  
Nice sounds so stupid  
You know what I mean  
See? Still hiding  
I think I’d be able to explain better if we could talk in person  
I’m the opposite—you talk better through text and I talk better face-to-face  
Opposites attract though, right?  
Lol  
Okay I’m going to shut up before you never contact me again just bc I’m lame  
Though I wouldn’t blame you if you ignore me because of how I treated you  
I’d love to apologize, if you’ll let me  
I hope you’re okay

And then the most recent text:

**Off Jumpol:** **  
** I’m going to take a walk near the coffee shop where we first met

He hadn’t explicitly asked that Gun meet him, but the invitation was open enough.

Gun slipped on his shoes, grabbed a sweatshirt, and ran out his front door. 

*

Off was wearing a jacket Gun remembered picking out for him. It was casual but fashionable in the way it cut off just slightly above his waist. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets as he paced back and forth across the sidewalk that lined the block outside of the coffee shop. 

In watching his feet take every retraced step, Off didn’t notice Gun walk up; Gun took that moment to take a deep breath and remind himself of Kwang’s advice.

_Hear him out. Advocate for what you need._

Gun walked into the light of a streetlamp. 

“Hi.”

Off snapped his head up: relief flooded his face. 

“Hi.”

“Did you actually walk here?” was the first thing he thought to say. 

“I needed to get some air, had to do something other than think about texting you a hundred more stupid things.”

“Your messages weren’t stupid,” Gun pointed out. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Why are you here?”

“I want to talk, too. I drove my car, we can talk there if you want?”

“Oh, the coffee shop’s open, actually. Well, open for us. It’ll just be us two.”

Gun saw no reason to protest, so he followed Off inside, where even behind the counter, there was no one. Emptying out an entire restaurant just so the two of them could talk was the most romance-novel-ceo thing Off had done yet.

With a choice of every table, Off led them to one nearest the counter, farthest from the corner they sat in last time.

“Tay actually owns this place,” Off explained as if he could see Gun’s imagination running wild. 

“What?” 

“I thought maybe you’d recognize him when he came over, he was working the day we came here. When I said I wouldn’t pay for your drink, I meant that Tay would have given it to you for free, but I guess that’s part of why we’re back here now, isn’t it? I say a lot of unnecessary stupid shit.”

Off tried to laugh, but self-deprecation shone through. As he ran a hand through his hair, Gun realized just how tired Off looked. The lighting wasn’t any help, but Gun would have bet money that Off hadn’t slept the evening away like he had. 

He alternated between looking at Gun and the window right past Gun’s shoulder as he spoke.

“Look, Gun, I’m an idiot. I got defensive, but that was only because of how insecure I was in how our relationship was shifting, or if it was shifting at all, or if there even was a relationship in the first place. I didn’t know how you felt except that you seemed attracted to me, too, and then when you said that thing about the money, I thought you’d confirmed my worst fear—that you felt obligated to sleep with me under some presumption of contract. It wasn’t even so much that I was offended because you thought I would pay you, I was using that anger to cover up just how hurt I was that we could have been just a business deal to you.”

“Even if you were only mad about what I said, I wouldn’t blame you, P’. It was a stupid joke, and I shouldn’t have tried to make light of the entire situation, I was just…also feeling insecure, I guess.”

“About what?” Off prompted when Gun trailed off, sounding unsure.

“I was so caught up in how good it felt to be with you I didn’t stop to consider that I knew basically nothing about how you felt about me.”

“I—“

“Just, let me get this out, please?”

Off nodded, leaned back in his chair.

“I don’t just mean me as a person…Maybe this would be easier to explain if I go back to the beginning? When you first messaged me, you seemed…not interested in sex at all, I mean literally you didn’t ask me for sex, but I also mean you didn’t seem sexually interested in me, a man, at all. So I kind of just assumed you were straight and that was what made it easier to accept your offers. There was no pressure to do or be anything more than the limits you set. It was ideal at the time, honestly. Not until last night did I ever think you might be attracted to me physically or…in any other way. God, I’m terrible with words, this is embarrassing to talk about.”

When Gun buried his face in his hands, Off pulled them away, gently.

“Hey, you’re doing fine.”

Gun hazarded to believe him. 

“The only other thing I wanted to say is that I made that joke because I was afraid you got wrapped up in the moment and that you didn’t actually like me or that you’d realize you made a mistake by sleeping with a guy, so I deflected. Not that I think you’re actually that kind of person, but you’d be surprised by how often this exact thing can happen with curious straight guys who are too afraid to utter the word bisexual. You’re right that I’ve kept my walls up around you…When I’ve let them down in the past, I’ve gotten hurt…I didn’t want to ruin a good thing—fuck, a _great thing_ —by putting myself in a position where you could hurt me.”

“So we were both afraid,” Off concluded. “But our fears confirm that each other’s insecurities are unfounded.”

“That’s a smart way to look at it…yeah. Let’s be really clear, then.” Gun shifted in his chair so he wasn’t slouching; he clasped his hands together on the table formally. A different kind of deal. “Off Jumpol, I like you as a man, not a boss.”

“Not a boss?”

“I’m firing you as my client, right now. If you ever pay my rent again, I will _sue you._ ”

Off filled the entirety of the coffee shop with the sound of his hand-on-belly laughter. 

“I don’t know if that will hold up in a court of law, but I won’t test it to find out.”

“And you?” Gun asked, feeling silly for a moment that he confessed without hearing how Off felt.

“I’m an asshole for not showing you more clearly so you never would have to ask me this, but yeah, of course I like you, too. I don’t think I ever had a chance from that very first message.” 

“So you thought I was hot even then?” Gun shimmied his shoulders playfully. “The ugly shirt was just a coverup?”

“You’re going to have to start warning your friends to look out for closeted bi guys messaging them on dating apps under the guise of clothing advice.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to—I wasn’t trying to force you to say that by talking about the other douchebags.” 

“I wanted to—I needed to. Come here.” Off pulled at Gun’s hands so he walked around the table. He pulled Gun into his lap, not unlike the position they were in earlier this afternoon. 

Off kissed his forehead sweetly. “I like everything about you.”

An echo of Gun’s whispering at Off’s thighs. 

Gun buried his head against Off’s chest, shy for more reason than one.

“I’m going to text P’Tay and tell him you’re seducing me in the middle of his shop.”

“He’ll kill me don’t you dare,” Off replied, but his voice sounded content as he leaned his cheek against the top of Gun’s head. 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about nothing other than me.”

Gun hugged him tighter.

*

Weeks later, Gun climbed out of Off’s bed and onto his back porch.

By the day, it seemed, the city was getting colder and the trees were shedding their leaves. Gun, however, had never felt quite so warm, as if he had his mother’s comforter around him at all times. 

With steady hands, Gun dialed a familiar number.

“Hey, dad, I know it’s early, but I have some good news.”

*

“ACTOR OF THE YEAR?” Jennie screamed in the middle of the bar, where all of Gun’s family and friends were gathered to celebrate. 

“HELL YEAH,” Off screamed back, and when Oab leaned across a wide-eyed Mook and a table and a half more of people to yell “AAHHHHHH” directly into Off’s ear, Gun almost wished he _hadn’t_ been cast in his first tv show so this party never had to happen. 

The pros outweighed the cons, ultimately.

His dad now knew he wasn’t in college.

His rent now was paid.

His boyfriend now had a hot actor boyfriend.

“To Gun,” Off toasted with a kiss to his temple. 

Amongst the echoing chorus was a distinctly deviating voice.

“SSING?”

Gun, Kwang, and Nook, the only people at the tables for whom that name coming from Jennie’s mouth would be significant, turned to the bar, where they assumed the old bartender might have returned.

Jennie, though, was looking toward the door. 

Having just arrived in jeans and a button down rather than his usual all-black bartender uniform, Ssing was making his way straight toward their group.

“Gun, my friend was in the area, so I told him he could stop by and say hello if that’s okay,” Tay explained as he got up to give Ssing a welcoming hug.

Jennie’s jaw dropped. “So your cute boyfriend’s cute friend is friends with my cute bartender?”

Ssing smiled at her, just like she’d contested he always had when he was working. 

“Off Jumpol, I don’t know what kind of luck you brought into this bar when you started talking to my nong,” Jennie paused her swooning to say, “but please don’t leave us any time soon.”

It would seem like that—a change of fortune; a play of fate—in the past six months since Off entered his life, but Gun knew what they had was actually in defiance of destiny. They shouldn’t have ended up here, and yet here they were. 

Gun felt Off knock his knee into his under the table.

“Gun deserves his own credit for every good thing that’s ever come to him, but I don’t plan on leaving any time soon, either.”

Gun cheersed to that, to him, to the ones he loved and to the ones who loved him back.

***

**Author's Note:**

> :""""""") Thank you for taking the time to finish this, dear reader. I hope you had just as much fun reading it as I had writing it. 
> 
> I would love to hear what you think *youtuber voice* in the comment section below. Let me know your thoughts~~~
> 
> Scream about offgun with me? [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/fieldtriparc) | [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/badlovee)


End file.
